


Dear Future Self

by Honestmouse



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: I dunno how to tag this, Self Harm, but like, claw machines?, it's only mentioned for one line, mentions of depression, not really - Freeform, stuffed animals, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:27:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23410171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honestmouse/pseuds/Honestmouse
Summary: Pete often wanders alone at night. Patrick kind of wants to put a bell on him.Or a tracker. Whichever works.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	Dear Future Self

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, have a random thing.

Pete is good at two things.

The first is annoying his bandmates. He’s got that one down pact. It’s his favorite fucking pastime. Even though Andy’s basically a fucking nun and would never actually get mad at Pete unless he did something _really_ bad. Which he would never. He loves Andy, loves his band. They’re his best friends, close enough to be family.

As for the second thing he’s good at? It’s scrawling lyrics onto the pages of cheap dollar store notebooks at 2am, and somehow managing to make them sound like he’s slit his wrists and let the blood form the words his head can’t get out. They always sound so much more profound in the morning, different than the desperate rambling that they were when he wrote them during the ungodly hours of the night. If Patrick asks him if he’s okay one more time, he’s probably gonna end up writing about _him_. That constant concern and simple _friendship_ that Patrick gives him has got to be poetic enough for a song. Right?

But Pete _is_ fine. Great even. 

His new meds are keeping him pretty level and most of the time he’s able to sleep through the night. Which is something Pete from last year would have killed to experience. Or… maybe died for is the right word?

Either way, he’s good. There’s no swirling cloud of depression over his head, none of the manic highs. Things might just be looking up. 

Even so, he can’t sleep.

And, because he’s still in the “recovery stage” and he knows better than to beat himself up for not being able to sleep, he wanders off the bus. It’s 3am and a few of the buses at the end of the parking lot still have their lights on, meaning at least someone is awake if he really needed to talk to someone.

Truthfully though, he doesn’t want to talk to anyone.

He loves touring, he really does- and he’s way more of an extrovert than an introvert- but he’s been surrounded by people since day one of this tour. Constant group huddles and soundchecks, quick check ins by his band members because they Worry About Him ™.

Pete just doesn’t feel like talking to anyone right now. Which is weird. Because before he would have done almost anything to not be left alone with his own thoughts. Now, he craves it.

He lets his mind wander. Back to the show tonight- yesterday? How the kids were so fucking loud and _into_ it. There was this one kid, a girl named Rachel, she came up to them after their set. She’d explained that she was working full time to afford college, so she’d made her own merch instead of buying it. And she did a damn good job too. The logo was perfect and messy, just how it should be. She’d asked them to sign the back and they had all done so, gladly.

Pete meets loads of fans, constantly, and he loves it. But this girl stood out to him. He can still see her face, can hear the genuine sincerity in her voice as she told them that their music is helping her get through art school.

And fuck, isn’t that the entire _point_ of doing this?

He looks up when he’s standing under the orange lighting of the truck stop. This isn’t one of the fancy ones, with the IHop attached to the gas station side. It just has a gas station, a shitty bathroom that’s way too small for how many people they have with them, and a vending machine room. 

But, there’s a saving grace. Pete found it when he was exploring earlier. He’d originally been planning on finding it again tomorrow before they leave but since he’s awake, he might as well mess with it now.

He walks around the side of the building- staying under the lights because this is Jersey and he doesn’t want to fucking get mugged or something- Pete makes his way to the vending machine area in the back of the building.

To call it a building is an understatement. It’s basically four walls, connected in the middle by one point so they look like a giant plus. They’re separated out for each section, the bathrooms and gas station are on the front sides while the vending machine room is on the back. Along with the fucking _arcade_ room Pete found earlier.

Okay, fine. It’s not exactly an arcade. There’s only a claw game, a gumball machine, and an ancient looking pac-man that has definitely seen better days. But, the reason he’s excited is because there was this little tiger stuffed animal in the claw machine. Call him a child, but Pete really fucking wants that stuffed animal.

He only has two quarters, seeing as Patrick would throw a fit if he raided their emergency change stash for a toy. But even so, Pete’s going to fucking _get_ that tiger.

There’s a plastic stool pushed up next to the claw machine and Pete inspects it carefully before sitting down. Aren’t people putting needles in chairs now or some shit? Or is that just ball pits?

Either way, people are fucking sick and he’d rather not sit on someone’s used needle. Thanks very much.

He determines that the stool looks safe enough- it’s definitely wobbly and there’s a few questionable stains, but oh well. It’s not exactly comfortable either but that’s also fine.

Pete sets his water bottle- which is full of chocolate milk because he’s a _child_ , if you hadn’t figured that out beforehand- on the flat part of the machine. He pulls out his two whole quarters and pays for his game.

Three tries, one tiger. Easy enough.

He carefully guides the claw over until it’s hovering directly above the tiger as the cheap music plays from a hidden speaker in the machine. Holding his breath, Pete hits the grab button. In slow motion the claw drops and grips the stuffed animal’s head. 

But then, as it starts to rise back up, the tiger slips through the claws and falls right back to where it was. The buzzer goes off, telling him he lost as if he can’t see that for himself. Stupid fucking machine.

Pete curses loudly and grumbles as the claw moves back to it’s start position in the left corner. He squints and sits up in the stool a little better. This time he aims that shit with his thumb to be absolutely _certain_ that he’ll get a good hold on the tiger this time.

The claw drops, wraps its arms around the stuffed animal, and begins to lift. Pete leans forward even more, until his nose is almost against the cheap glass. The claw slowly makes it’s way over to the drop area. But then the tiger begins to slip. Pete almost cries when it falls, not an inch from where he wanted it to go.

“Pete?”

He spins around, scared for a moment that he’s about to get murdered while playing a fucking claw game. What _is_ his life?

But wait- no it’s just Patrick.

When he steps into the light of the dingy little arcade room, Pete’s able to recognize the pajama pants and sweatshirt combo. Along with the rare glimpse of strawberry blond hair that’s, for once, not hidden by a hat or some kind. Pete counts it as a miracle.

“Hey, Trick,” he says casually, twisting to turn back around to his game.

These shits have time limits and this is his last try.

He hears rather than sees Patrick walk over but he focuses on the game. That tiger is going to be his and he’s going to keep it in his bunk for the rest of the tour. If anyone has a problem with it they can shove it somewhere unpleasant. The tiger is cute. Fuck anyone who says otherwise.

“How long have you been out here, Pete?”

“Not long,” he answers distractedly, leaning forward yet again to try and measure up the distance.

He _has_ to get it this time.

Pete hovers the claw right over the tiger. It’s in a weird spot, being so close to the drop area, so this is going to be hard. He barely pays attention when Patrick steps closer and glances, confused at the claw machine.

“Um… what’re you doing? It’s late and you really shouldn’t be wandering out here.”

Rolling his eyes- because _duh_ this is Jersey. He’s not dumb. There’s a little switchblade in his pants pocket in case he needs it- Pete hits the grab button. The claw comes down so slowly that he swears it’s doing it out of spite. And misses.

By a good inch to the right.

Pete curses again and hangs his head in defeat.

“I want the stupid fuckin’ tiger,” he answers at last, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

Not towards Patrick, no he’s like Pete’s best fucking friend. No his anger and resentment is towards whoever the fuck decided to put adorable as shit stuffed animals inside of _impossible_ claw machines. This is fucking capitalism at it’s finest and Pete sorta wants to write a song about it.

About the way these companies are targeted towards little kids- and people like Pete- who just want the shitty stuffed animals and how they’ll ultimately end up paying more for the toy this way than they would have just by going to the store.

It’d be a damn good song. And Pete could make stuffed tigers of his _own_. Throw them out into the crowd as a big fuck you to the corporation that runs this _exact_ claw machine in bum fuck New Jersey.

It’s a good plan, and not even one of his crazier ones. It might work.

“You wanted the Lisa Frank stuffed tiger? This one. _Not_ the one that’s in the basket by the door of the gas station?”

Pete frowns. He hadn’t seen the other tiger. Did he just waste his money on nothing? Did he just chip in to some high up corporate asshole’s new yhat?

Fuck.

“I wanted it,” he defends quietly, still refraining from turning around to look at Patrick.

Instead, he angrily picks up his chocolate milk and takes a very long, very angry, drink.

“So you came out at _three_ in the morning to get it?” 

Pete finally turns around at that, at the concern lacing Patrick’s words that he hadn’t caught onto until just now.

 _Shit_.

This isn’t _that_ but it damn well looks like it doesn’t it?

How many times has Patrick found him in places that he shouldn’t be in the dead of night? Getting into trouble or half out of his mind, wandering the streets. Truth is, Pete doesn’t even know the number. A lot.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Patrick frowns. Not Pete’s best word choice. Especially when that could mean anything from, _I haven't slept in almost a week and my head is so full that I feel like my brain is about to pour out of my ears_ , to what is _actually_ happening. Which is just that he couldn’t sleep because he wasn’t tired, and so he decided to try and get the stuffed animal that caught his eye.

The once over Patrick gives him tells Pete that he’s determining which of those scenarios this is. He’ll over think it if Pete lets him worry for too long. 

“I’m _fine_ , Trick. I just wasn’t ready to sleep yet so I figured I’d walk around the lot and then fall asleep. But then I remembered the tiger and I just really, _really_ fuckin’ want it.”

Patrick studies him another moment. Probably checking for bags under his eyes, that hyperactive shake to his hands when he’s too exhausted to function but too stressed to sleep. Neither of those are present. Because Pete really _is_ fine.

He used to tell himself he didn’t deserve this, having friends that care enough to come find him when he’s not in his bunk in the middle of the night. He knows for a fact that the others have a rotating check on him at the moment, until they all get accustomed to touring again. 

Pete knows this and he honestly can’t believe he didn’t allow himself to accept it until now. Sure, he hates seeing the others worry so much over him but there’s also a comfort there. In knowing from experience that they do have his back, no matter what.

Just like right now.

“Alright,” Patrick says slowly.

The sleepiness is written all over his face, in the way he blinks slowly like he’s forcing himself to stay awake now that the immediate stress is over. He’s ever so slightly swaying on his feet and Pete has to hold back a smile when he yawns. 

“And you’re sure you’re okay?”

“Positive. I actually ran outta quarters, so how about we head back. It’s late anyway.”

Patrick thinks on it a moment but, much to Pete’s surprise, shakes his head.

“No. You want that tiger, you’re getting that stupid tiger.”

He doesn’t even have time to question how, before Patrick is crouching down to the metal flap where the toy would come through. Patrick lifts the flap and shoves his arm up the little shoot. Pete watches through the glass as he scoops up the tiger and retracts his arm, bringing the toy with him.

Real, actual tears form in his eyes when Patrick presents the stuffed, neon colored tiger to him. It’s just as soft as he thought it’d be. And it’s so _small_ that it fits in the palm of his hand. He loves it. 

“You really like that toy?” 

Patrick doesn’t sound accusing, if anything he sounds fond. Happy even. Good, Patrick should always be happy.

“Yeah. When I was little I always wanted one, one of the big ones that you see in the department stores, but my dad said it was for girls and…”

Patrick’s hands come to rest on his shoulders and when Pete looks up, the sympathy is back. Which, isn’t what he was aiming for at all. He was just stating a fact. 

Plus, he’s _more_ than gotten back at his dad. What with the girl’s jeans and the hair. Not to mention the tattoos. And dropping out of law school? Icing on the cake. His dad did this to himself, really. 

“Next time we pass a Macy’s, I’m getting you one of those giant ones,” Patrick tells him seriously.

Pete nods, unable to hide the smile on his face at the thought. It’d probably be bigger than _he_ is and it’d be a pain in the ass to tour with, but _god_ has he never wanted anything more.

“Let’s head back to the bus. We’re back on the road at 9”

Patrick groans at the early departure time but follows Pete back. Pete keeps his chocolate milk in one hand, his stuffed animal in his hoodie pocket, and his best friend by his side.

For all the nights he hasn’t been able to sleep, this one turned out to not be so bad.

**Author's Note:**

> So I'd love to be able to say this is so random because of the quarantine and I was bored. But nope. I wrote this a month ago, at 4am, because I couldn't sleep. Not quite sure what this is or why I needed to write about Pete winning a stuffed animal. But I did.   
> And I figured I might as well post it, even though I wrote it having no intention of it ever seeing the light of day. *shrugs*


End file.
